France, April 1918
Wars have always existed. From the simple foot soldier on the battlefields to the generals, hundreds of miles away, safe, I have watched. The stench of blood, the rot of fear, the roar of rifles and cannon fire is well known to me. Before the battle, after the skirmish, during the fighting, I watch and I wait. Then I walk through the carnage and set free the suffering, the anguished and the dying. I set their souls, if they even have them or believe in them, free.
Over the many years, the many soldiers who have slipped past me, to go on with their lives and live, have given me a reputation. They talk of a dark figure that huddles over their fallen comrades, only to walk on and leave their friends dead. I am called many things: the Angel of Death, the Grim Reaper, even the spawn of Satan. I was born and named Caleb. I am neither an angel nor devil. I am a vampire and I go from battlefield to battlefield, trying to stop the suffering of those who are about to die. My bite ends the pain and eases the soul into the next life. I don't do this out of any sense of justice. I am a hungry man who must feed, and there is no better place to dine than a war torn countryside.
Tonight I walk over the lines, slipping into the trenches of the German soldiers. I found a young boy, perhaps twenty, who was ripe with fear. His heart beats rapidly, knowing deep down that he will die. He has given up. I can smell it on him. Even if there is no battle tomorrow, he will die. His soul has given in to the fear. I slipped down beside him, speaking the archaic German I'd learned over the centuries.
"Do not fear, little one."
"Who are you, sir?" His smile is tremulous. He is already dead.
"I am no one. Just another soldier like you." I caressed his face. He pushed it into my hand, letting me feel the barely there stubble on his cheek. So young, so new to have already given up, I felt a moment of pity, a second of hesitation. No one this young should die. But I stamped it down; the hunger already riding me. I slipped beside him, lowered my body to his, lying on him as I pressed him back into the dirt wall of the trench.
My power reached out to him, quickening his blood, stirring his lust. My lips found his pulse, deep in his throat. My power calls it to the surface, where I licked it. I undid his trousers, feeling him hard and leaking in my hand. I can give him this as I take him. I can give him pleasure. I find his gun and in his pocket is a glass bottle of gun oil. I poured some out onto my hand and pressed it to him, parting him, stroking him. The boy has already given himself to me.
Once he opened, I pressed myself to him, joining with him, sinking deep into his body. As I began to move, the soldier's heart started beating with passion instead of fear. I hate the taste of fear. It sours the blood, taints it with its negativity. I wanted purity. I crave the flavor of lust and love. I could give the boy lust, and when he is consumed with it, end his life.
I feel his body quickening below me. He fisted me with his warm body, pulling me towards my own release. As I kept pushing into him, his belly tensed and his moans filled the night air. With the first jet of his release, my teeth entered his flesh, drilling into his neck, searching for his vein. The first drops hit me scalding hot and full of youthful lust and the rush of orgasm. I continued to pump my hips, feeling my own body quake with the explosion of release. My last pump of semen coincided with the last drop of blood I took from the boy. I felt his heart beat one last time, and then stop.
The boy lay against the dirt wall, his trousers around his knees. No matter how many times I'd taken a life, even one so close to death, I have never left them as they died. I straightened his clothing and wiped up the spilled blood along his neck. I sat him back against the dirt wall of the trench. As I left, his eyes were closed, but he had a trace of a smile on his lips. I had fed for the night.
Through the trees of the Ardennes, I made my way slowly towards my home. The late April night and full moon made the bare branches look like claws waiting to rend the flesh of unsuspecting nightwalkers. The dead zone between the lines is always so silent, so still. I liked walking it. There are owls and a few other birds of prey that hunt in the night, but all other creatures were gone. They should be gone. No one should be here, not even the soldiers.
My home was a simple stone structure, built two hundred years before. The previous occupants were a miller and his family, all of them stricken with small pox. As I took their lives, I took their home. I was born over five hundred years ago and I have seen many wars. I have amassed a fortune greater than most of the world's wealthiest people. Yet I always come home to France, to my mill by the river. With the new steamships, I have traveled all over this world, and yet I cannot abide to be away from my home for more than a few months at most.
The sun would soon rise, the horizon already purpling as I made my way through the woods and the rocks until I got to my house. There were soldiers all around it. I plunged into the river, knowing I had an emergency entrance if need be. I slipped behind the old wheel and let myself into the basement through the wheel casings. I was so weary of it. All I wanted was to lie down and sleep. The rising of the sun would take care of that for me. I made my way deeper into the flooring, past the old grindstone there was a door. It led down into a deep chamber that was damp and cold, until I reached a door. Inside was my private keep. The room was hidden deep within the earth, no windows, and only the one door. If need be, I could stay here, outside of the sun for as long as I needed to be.
I slipped out of the German uniform I had taken and trudged over to my bed, I could tell the sun was rising, my arms and legs became heavy, and my heart was slowing. The warm blood of the soldier was becoming sluggish in my veins. As the sun pierced the horizon, my body stopped. My heart stopped its beating and I died, sprawled on my bed.
I do not stay dead throughout the sun's journey across the sky. I am old enough, been a vampire long enough that my heart starts beating relatively quickly after sunrise. It is only the new ones that stay dead until the sun sets. I slept for a good part of the day. But I rose and stretched my body, feeling and touching it. I died in the prime of my life. For the time, I was tall. Now, I'm still tall, but not as tall as some. At five-nine, I have a wiry, rangy build that is lithe and muscular. My arms are defined, as are my legs, belly and chest. There is some chestnut hair fanned across my chest, between my nipples. There is a dark swirl of it around my navel. I let my beard grow out; I hate to shave. My hair is clipped close to my head. I slipped on my clothes, the clothing that I wear around my home. It would be a few hours before I could go above.
My hunger was met; I hardly needed to feed that often anymore. It is only during times of war that I gorge myself. I can, if need be, go months between feedings. But while the foolish nations tried to garner territory, and the feeding so plentiful, I would take advantage of it. I slipped out my door, going into the dank, damp antechamber. There was scuffling in the grinding room. I opened the door and hid behind the old grindstone. The unmistakable sounds of rutting filled my hypersensitive hearing. I peeked around the old stone to see a man pushing into a woman. Her eyes were glazed with hatred, her body tense and bruised. She had been used before, broken but not lost. She wasn't fighting; she was biding her time.
The sight before me filled me with disgust. In all my years, I had never once found it necessary to take what wasn't freely given. I had seen men take their pleasure, force women and some men into satisfying their lust more times than I could count. I moved silently from behind the grindstone, walking stealthily behind the soldier. Once behind him, my hands reached out and in a flare of fury, I snapped his neck. His body hit the floor long after he was dead.
